


With Teeth

by isis_astarte_diana



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Boot Worship, Breathplay, Consensual Non-Consent, F/F, Glove Kink, Hypnotism, Mind Control, Missy Is Her Own Warning, Naked Female Clothed Female, Painplay, Rape Fantasy, Reader-Insert, Spit Kink, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:00:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27662392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isis_astarte_diana/pseuds/isis_astarte_diana
Summary: "I know that you'd never actually hurt me, not in a way that I didn't want you to, but- would it be bad if I wanted to pretend?"Missy helps the reader live out a dark fantasy.
Relationships: Missy (Doctor Who)/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 57





	1. The Chase

You race down the dim hallway, your bare feet stinging from the unforgiving metal floor. Each step rings hollow and echoes along the walls. Beneath you, around you, the ship hums and hisses. It sounds excited.

Lit up in violet and blue, the corridor is a maze of shadows. Your own is unnaturally tall, whip-thin, stretching off into the darkness in front of you.

When your hand brushes against a doorframe you grasp the handle and twist. It doesn’t budge.

It’s locked. Just like the last one. Just like the next one will be. They’re _all_ locked.

You don’t know why you thought the TARDIS would be on your side.

Pressing a hand over your panting mouth, you flatten yourself against the wall and listen. Blood rushes in your ears. As your pulse slowly drops, you hear her boots on the ground. The sound is faint, but growing closer.

Her voice, when she speaks, makes you whimper behind your palm.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are…”

* * *

_“Are you alright?”  
_

_With the pads of her thumbs, Missy wipes the tears from beneath your eyes. She watches you carefully. Her head cocks to the side as she takes in the damage and you laugh, breathless and watery, nuzzling into her palms._

_“I’m fine. I’m better than fine, I’m- fuck, I-” chuckling in a vaguely hysterical way, you wrap your arms around her and pull her close. “I’m something, anyway.”_

_“You’re certainly that.” She combs a hand through your hair and tucks your face against her neck. You burrow into her, greedily breathing her in. Naked in her arms like this, sweaty and sore and humming with sensation, you feel like the centre of the universe. “Not too sore?”_

_“Not too sore,” you agree, pressing a damp kiss to the curve of her neck. “Just sore enough.”_

_“Good girl.” The tears slowly dry up, the tremors in your aching body eased by her embrace and her gentle hands. She sweeps her palms across the most painful spots, tirelessly soothing each bite, each welt. “I know it was a lot, today.”_

_“It was,” you admit, wincing when she touches a particularly tender mark on your back. “But I loved it, and I think-” nuzzling deeper into her, you murmur, “I think I might like to try even more, some time.”  
_

* * *

Your head whips left and right, trying to gauge the options in front of you; onwards into darkness, or back the way you came. All the while, her heels _tap tap tap_ on the metal floor.

The layout this deep in the TARDIS is a mystery to you. It’s impossible to tell how close she is. She could be at the end of this stretch of corridor. She could be half a mile away.

“You can run, but you can’t hide!”

She sings it with obvious relish.

You know you can’t stay here. Decision made, you hurry forwards - you _think_ it’s forwards. Everything looks the same down here.

Fingers trailing along the wall, you try to keep your footsteps quiet but it’s hopeless. They’re deafening. Disorientated by the noise, the dark, the unhurried and inescapable approach of her somewhere beyond your line of sight, you fight to keep your wits about you.

At the end of the corridor your hand falls into emptiness. You almost fall with it.

* * *

_“Would you, now?” There’s a faint teasing lilt to her voice. She brushes her lips against your shoulder. “And what might that look like?”_

_“I don’t know,” you lie, unconvincingly. Missy pulls back, just enough to look in your eyes. When she sees the embarrassment there she softens and nudges your chin up with her hand._

_“Tell me.” Her mouth quirks at the corners, encouraging and mild. “What’s gotten you looking so shy, hmm?”  
_

_“I shouldn’t.” Your gaze flits restlessly over her face. In this afterglow you feel bold, but not quite bold enough.  
_

_“Oh, but you must.” She draws her bottom lip between her teeth, eyes bright with unbridled excitement. It makes your heart flutter. “You can’t keep such delicious secrets from me.”_

_“I’m worried,” you admit, the words cracking in your mouth. “That you’ll be disgusted with me.”_

_Her smile widens and she speaks with the gentlest reprimand. “You ridiculous creature.” Beneath your chin her fingers crook and curl against your jaw. “Do you really think you could scare me off?”  
_

_“Well, no, but-”  
_

_“Ah, ah, none of that.” With a soft kiss to the tip of your nose, she prompts, “trust me, dearest. You couldn’t horrify me if you tried.”  
_

_“I do trust you, Missy.” You duck your head but she doesn’t let you hide, following your movements with a tender sort of curiosity plain on her face. “That’s just it. I know that you wouldn’t- you’d never actually hurt me, not in a way I didn’t want you to, but-”  
_

_Unable to face the words, you close your eyes and ask in a hoarse whisper._

_“Would it be bad if I wanted to pretend?”  
_

* * *

The path branches off four ways.

Each fork looks identical; low lights embedded in cold, smooth walls, highlighting locked door after locked door. What _are_ these rooms? You’ve never been this far from the console room before.

You’re out of your depth.

At random, you pick the right turn and take it, bare feet flying behind you, palm flush to the wall.

“If you tell me where you are,” she calls casually, and you almost trip at how much _closer_ she sounds now, “I might not hurt you too badly when I catch you. And I _will_ catch you, my dear.”

When you reach another junction you throw a quick glance over your shoulder - nothing there, no sanctuary from the unforgiving darkness but the dim and flare of the lights - and turn right.

Right is good.

You keep running.

* * *

_For a brief moment of silence you worry that you’ve made a mistake; and then she chuckles._

_“Oh, poppet.” When you look at her again she’s grinning, and that mischievous glint is back in her eyes. “You want to play cat and mouse with me?”_

_Her words make you prickle with delight. You smile shyly. “Is that alright?”_

_“It’s very brave of you.” She traces your bottom lip with her thumb and you press a kiss to it. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”  
_

_“You don’t scare me, Missy.” When she raises an expectant eyebrow, you laugh. “You don’t. I just- I know that you could, if you wanted to.”_

_“And you want me to.” It’s not a question, but you nod anyway. “What do I do with my unwilling prey once I’ve caught her?”_

_Something about the look on her face makes your breath catch. “Anything you like.”_

* * *

You keep running right up until you see the dead end in front of you.

It’s a few yards away, just another stretch of blank wall, a single violet light glowing from it like one staring eye.

Muffling a frustrated cry on your knuckles, you lean heavily against the wall and try to catch your breath again. Your legs ache from running. The soles of your feet are burning. Your heartbeat drowns out the _tap tap tap_ behind you so that when you hear her chuckle, close at your back, the shock makes you yelp and whirl around to face her.

Missy stands in the dark just ahead of you.

She’s nothing but shadow, a black shape picked out in blue and purple, formless but for eyes and teeth glistening wetly in the low light. You stumble backwards, barely keeping your footing, and she smiles wider. Her voice is poisoned honey.

“Oh, poppet. You _have_ been naughty.”

* * *

_“Now, how could I ever refuse an offer like that?” An echo of her earlier tenderness comes back, just for a moment. “You’ll still be able to stop me if it’s too much. Just say the word.”_

_“I know. I just want to-_ _I don’t know, it’s like with rollercoasters. You know that you’re safe, but you still scream. Does that make any sense?”_

_“It makes perfect sense.” The tip of her thumb presses just inside your mouth, tracing the sharp edges of your incisors. “Did nobody ever tell you, poppet? Fear is just excitement with teeth.”_


	2. The Trap

“ _Please_.”

Lost in the half-light, your voice is tremulous. With one hand on the wall and the other held out in front of you as if to fend her off, you manage another quaking step backwards. Missy watches you intently but makes no move to follow.

“Yes?” She cocks her head and leans on her umbrella. Her tone is one of practised indifference.

It’s so far removed from the way she would usually speak to you that it makes your chest tighten. The game is on; the sharp teeth of the trap are hovering around your ankle.

“Please,” you whisper again. “Please, just- just let me go.“

“Hmm.” She offers you one of those dark little chuckles, curling back red lips from her gleaming teeth. Then, as if she were politely disagreeing with a suggestion, she says, “no. No, I don’t think I shall.”

“What do you _want_?” Your pitch is rising, voice weakening with every moment she spends looking at you like _that_ \- like she’s staring through your clothes and your skin to see the wet and bloody parts inside. “I don’t- I don’t know anything, I can’t _give_ you anything-”

Missy tuts, sympathetic. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, dear. You can give me some _entertainment_.”

Your shoulders fall with a wavering gasp. The chill of terror is hardly facsimile. “Are you going to kill me?”

“ _Kill_ you?” 

With a cruel twist of her mouth, she takes the first step closer. Deep in your throat, something catches, shaking loose a soft whimper. You cringe back. Your movements match hers as perfectly as if you were dancing. 

“Oh, dearest. So little imagination.” 

Another step, for both of you; the distance remains constant but you can feel the wall looming at your back and you know that this cannot go on indefinitely. One of you will have to give.

_You_ will have to give.

She leans forwards, showing you a flash of eyes and teeth, a shiver of delight plucking its way along her spine. She looks unhinged. She looks _beautiful_.

“I’m going to do _much_ worse than that.”

Her red mouth opens with a joyful little gasp and even though you’d talked about this, even though you’d _asked_ for this, you believe her.

You move backwards again and she hardens, the change in her voice, in her expression, so swift it could give you whiplash. This time she does follow, that single step punctuated with a hard _tap_ of her umbrella against the ground.

“Now, as far as I’m concerned, we can do this in one of two ways. First, and this way _really_ is better for you,” she makes a sweeping gesture with her free hand, indicating the ground in front of her. “You can come here. You can get on your knees, and promise to be a _good_ little girl for your Mistress.”

Bristling at her words, you snap, “or _what_?”

“ _Or_ ,” she takes a slow, reverent breath, savouring the threat before she speaks it. “I can _make_ you.”

“You can’t,” you grit out, but the words are unsteady. “You couldn’t do that.”

“Could I not?” She watches, unimpressed, as you scramble further backwards until you feel the wall, cool and unforgiving, under your hands. “Well, we’ll have to wait and see. Five.”

She takes another step, the lights of the corridor finally illuminating her from head to toe. She’s dressed to _travel_ , no detail missing, from the hat pinned rakishly at the side of her head to the brown leather driving gloves peeking out from the sleeves of her coat. It’s the first time you’ve seen her properly since you were set loose in the depths of the TARDIS like a hunted fox from a cage and the sight of her captivates you.

“Listen to your little _heart_ beating! I bet you think you’re being brave, don’t you? All strong and silent like a spoilsport.” She smirks. “I’m going to have _so much fun_ making you scream. Four.”

Your appreciative glances haven’t gone unnoticed. Raising a dark eyebrow in challenge, Missy smiles wider, snapping her teeth with enough ferocity to make you flinch even ten feet away. It would be too easy for you to get comfortable in your current position and she knows better than to let that happen.

"What _will_ it take, I wonder? How long will you be able to hold out, biting your pretty tongue until it bleeds? I’ll have you _begging_ me to kill you before I’m finished. Three.”

She knows that the countdown will unsettle you; that _time_ is her own domain in which you twist and flounder. All of it, the numbers, the foreign surroundings, the way she’s dressed herself as if in armour while you stand barefoot and shivering in the scant slip nightgown that doesn’t even reach your knees, is designed to create the illusion that this is _not_ your home, that she is _not_ your Missy and you, for your part, have walked into something that you can barely comprehend.

“Two,” she coos, all sweetness, and for a moment you curse your own bravery.

“Please,” you murmur once more. “Please, please, let me go.” The wall pressed against your bare shoulders hums with excitement. In the pit of your stomach the horror unfurls and licks your veins with adrenaline, sending you hot and cold, your legs shaking beneath you.

Her sharp blue eyes chart your body, lingering on the spot where ivory silk gives way to reveal your naked thighs. You notice her gaze and busy both hands with tugging down the hem, trying in vain to preserve some sense of modesty. She makes a quiet noise of appreciation low in her throat.

“ _One_.”


	3. The Threat

You expect Missy to lunge.

In anticipation of force, of pain, you flatten yourself to the wall and duck your head. Your skin prickles as you wait to feel her cruel fingers twisting into your hair or wrapping around your bare arms.

Her soft chuckle surprises you enough to make you look up at her again.

This is a mistake.

She hasn’t moved. Both gloved hands are folded neatly on the handle of her umbrella. The moment that your gaze crosses hers, she gives you a sharp, lopsided smile.

“ _Obey_ me.”

The crushing weight of her words knocks the breath from your chest more effectively than any blow could.

“Stop it,” you whisper, trying unsuccessfully to tear your eyes away, battling the mist that tugs at the edges of your mind. “Stop that. Whatever you’re doing, _stop_ -”

“I am your Mistress,” she continues, heedless of your feeble protests. Her voice is low and melodic. “And you _will_ obey me.”

“No, no, _stop-_ ” You’re fastened to her bright blue eyes, sucked in, chewed and swallowed and consumed there. She creeps into your skull through your eyes and ears like so many insects, like a hundred tiny limbs tickling the soft tissue, a swarming violation of your mind that’s made no less frightening by your consent. “Don’t, _don’t_ -”

It doesn’t usually feel like this.

You’ve been hypnotised by her before - almost always as a willing participant - and it has _never_ been so uncomfortable. Usually she washes through you with ease and care, a warm haze that leaves you as woozy and contented as a few glasses of wine. Succumbing to her will is typically a pleasure.

She’s doing this on purpose.

Knowing, perhaps, how readily you would offer up ingress to your psyche, your subconscious mind unable to comprehend the game that you’ve chosen to play, she makes it difficult for you. What would be smooth and slick is _itchy_ , frictional, deeply unsettling. In place of the sensation of slipping into a warm bath it feels like she’s drowning you.

“Just _obey_ me,” she says again, the expression on her face one of peaceful triumph. “Obey your Mistress.”

“No, _please_ ,” you breathe, almost all resistance leeched from your tone by now. She’s taking it slowly, letting you feel every crawling inch of her influence, making sure you know exactly how powerless you are before her. “Stop, stop, _don’t_ -”

“ _Obey_.”

Being engulfed by her is almost a mercy.

“Come here, and kneel for your Mistress.”

You can feel the cool floor under your feet, the air against your back where a moment ago there had been a solid wall, but you watch yourself as if from six feet above your body while you close the distance between yourself and Missy.

“There we are,” she croons, as you finally lower yourself to your knees on the unforgiving metal floor in front of her. “Isn’t that _nicer_? Down here, where you belong?”

“Yes,” you whisper, against your own will. “Yes, Mistress.”

“Be a good girl and kiss my boots.”

For all the choice you have, she may as well have forced you down with immovable hands.

You bow low, almost bent double, and press your lips to the surface of her right boot, just above her toes. The kiss lingers for a moment before you repeat it on her left foot. She hums with amusement above you.

“A _proper_ kiss, now, dear,” she chides playfully. “Show me how _grateful_ you are for the privilege.”

When the flat of your tongue swipes over the leather you wince at the bitter taste of freshly applied polish. She’s taken great care to prepare for you, to ensure that you never quite manage to steady yourself, that even the familiar is made strange to you today.

By the time you’ve worshipped the surface of both boots with your tongue the inside of your mouth is dry and tacky. She releases her hold on your mind just enough to let you pull back, wiping your mouth with the back of one hand, swallowing thickly and summoning more saliva to replace what now slicks her boots.

“That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?” The wet leather at the toe of her boot lifts your chin gracelessly until you stare into the plum purple fabric of her skirt. “You look much prettier on your knees. I think I’ll keep you here.”

For the first time your attention is allowed to wander past the sight of her in front of you and the taste of leather polish. You realise with a soft squeak of alarm how exposed you are in this position, the loose neckline of the slip drooping at your chest, the short hem riding higher to expose the crease where your thighs meet your arse. You lean further back, straightening up as far as you can.

Missy watches with barely suppressed glee as you rise from your hands, lifting your eyes past her skirt and her coat to finally land on her wicked smile.

“Oh, what’s the _matter_ , love?” The tip of her umbrella leaves the ground, finding the left strap of your nightgown and hooking beneath it with perfect precision. The cold metal of it on your skin is a careful threat. “Didn’t you enjoy that?”

“No,” she lets you whisper. “No, Mistress.”

“Pity.” She tugs the thin strap down your shoulder and leaves it to sag down towards your elbow, the silk gown shifting just an inch further down over your left breast. “I could _make_ you enjoy it. I could make you enjoy anything.”

“Please,” you manage, hoarse and quivering. “Please, don’t.”

“Would you rather suffer?” She lifts the right strap, now, pulling it an inch clear of your shoulder. “Would you rather it was painful?”

“I’m not- I don’t-”

“I could flay you alive and have you beg me not to stop.” Prickling gooseflesh covers your chest when the strap falls free and the neckline of your slip falls uselessly, exposing your breasts. You try to cover yourself with your arms but they won’t move past your sides. “I could put this,” the end of the umbrella lands in your clavicle, nudging just hard enough to hurt, “ _inside_ of you, and have you beg me to _open_ it.”

Heavy tears of horror bite at your eyes with her words. “No, no, _please_ don’t.”

“No? You wouldn’t like that?” She cocks her head as if she doesn’t quite believe you. “I could make you do it _yourself_ , if you’d prefer? Tear yourself apart inside for my pleasure?”

You shake your head mutely, your hands clenching into fists where they rest beside your hips. Missy chuckles.

“Don’t worry, poppet. I’ll let you get it nice and wet first.” The tip of the umbrella draws a dull, aching line up your chest and along the line of your throat, forcing your head back lest it stab painfully into your windpipe. She doesn’t have to make you open your mouth; the fear of her knocking your teeth out from the pressure has your lips parting to accept the inch-thick ferrule without a fight. “We wouldn’t want all the blood to spoil the view, now, would we?”

It’s not quite long enough to gag you, but the weight of it drags your tongue down uncomfortably and opens your throat. She curls her lips back from her teeth, watching with obvious satisfaction as the first tears begin to fall.

“Suck.”

Again, she needs not force you. The vulnerability of your position, the threat of her strong gloved hand on the umbrella’s handle, is more than enough to have you closing your lips around the ferrule and hollowing your cheeks with suction.

“Well, look at that,” she muses, twisting the thin shaft inside your mouth with a delicate motion of her wrist. “Someone’s been practising. I’m beginning to think you’re having almost as much fun as I am.”

Without any warning she frees you from her influence so that you fall shuddering back into yourself. Your breath catches, your back arching from the shock so that you slide further down on the ferrule and choke yourself. You pull away, spluttering, reaching for the umbrella reflexively, but she snatches it from your grasp.

“You see? I barely had to persuade you at all. You _must_ want it inside of you.”

“No!” Your voice is hoarse and desperate as your arms finally cross over your naked chest. “No, no, _no_ , please-”

“I think it’ll be better if you really _feel it_ , though, without my _calming_ influence. Well,” she scoffs. “Better for _me_ , anyway. Not sure how much difference it’ll make to you. Face down on the floor.”

“Please!” A harsh sob rocks your chest to match the tears. “Please don’t do that, _anything_ but that, _please-”_

Missy sighs and casts her face skyward. “I _said_ ,” a gloved hand winds into your hair and yanks your head back until the blazing pain in your scalp makes you cry out, “ _face down_.”

She pushes you down hard, loosing her grip to let you fall flat on your face, stepping back elegantly to keep you from landing on her boots. You just have time to move your hands and catch yourself with your palms, your breasts brushing the cold floor, your forehead resting there as you start to cry in earnest. The change in position exposes you once more. Thin silk falls down the slope of your spine, leaving you practically naked save for the fabric bunched up and hanging ridiculously around your waist.

“Much better.”

She nudges your head with the toe of her boot, not quite a kick but not gentle either, and begins to circle your prone body unhurriedly. The slow click of her heels on the ground reminds you to put up a fight.

You lift your face from the floor and start to crawl. The metal is unforgiving, friction dragging over your palms and your knees, but you persist. Your limbs tremble from the fear and the strain, adrenaline lacing each breath and making your head throb.

You make it, perhaps, four feet.

With a barking laugh Missy’s strong hand shoots out to grasp your ankle, the leather tight and burning on your skin as she _tugs_ and sends you sprawling on your stomach. The impact makes you cry out. She straightens up from her crouch behind you as you try to catch your breath, batting at the tears on your face and struggling to rise onto your hands and knees once more.

“I was _already_ cross with you, poppet,” she chastises, planting her feet either side of your waist. “But now, my goodness, I’m downright _vexed_.”

Folds of her wool skirt pool in your naked back when she lowers herself to her knees astride you. Her weight lands on your arms, knees painfully braced in your biceps, digging in with precision so that the pinched skin and crushed muscle has you wailing into the ground. Your hands scrabble for purchase but there’s no escape from the punishing pressure.

It’s almost too much; almost enough to make you break character, the wrong type of pain threatening to push you past enjoyment. As if she can tell - probably, she can - Missy shifts her weight back onto where she straddles you. The sting eases, replaced with the familiar warmth of her weight on your bare skin where you can support it. Still, you can barely move your arms under her knees. You cross the fingers of both hands where they’re spread palm down on the floor, a silent signal of gratitude, of _yes_ , of _keep going, give me more, I can take it._

“Do you always have this much trouble following simple instructions, or is that just for me?” Unseen, she takes off her hat and sets it down on the ground in your line of sight. “I can always arrange a more _permanent_ solution than hypnotism, you know.”

Cool leather slides under your throat and she presses her gloved thumb hard into your jaw, pulling your head up, craning your neck until it almost hurts. You whine and squirm anew, babbling, “-off, get _off_ me, let me _go_ -”

“Tell me,” casual as anything, she speaks over your protests. “Are you familiar with the transorbital lobotomy?”

You fall dead still at the flash of metal near your left eye. Her fingers are tight on the ornamental end of the long hatpin she’s removed, the point of it directed squarely at your face. She’s clever, more than clever enough not to accidentally hurt you with it, but the threat feels _decidedly_ real.

“Fantastic feat of human engineering, I have to admit. Just _slide_ it in past the eyeball,” your gaze follows the movement of the hatpin as she points it towards the inner corner of your eye, “give it a wee _wiggle_ and hey, presto, one happy little patient. Shall we give it a try?”

“No!” You squeeze your eyes shut, the sight of the glinting metal pushing you close to hysteria. “No, no, _please_ , I’ll be good, I’ll stay still, just-”

“That’s a good girl.” She lets you go and your face _does_ hit the floor this time, your nose banging into the ground with a twinge of pain. “Now, why couldn’t you have said that a minute ago, hmm? We were going to play a _lovely_ game of _hide the umbrella_ , and then you went and spoiled it by being all _naughty_.”

You shake your head and whimper into the ground, teeth bared, tasting salty tears as they trickle into your mouth.

“Do you know what I do with _naughty_ humans who won’t do as they’re told?” One hand fists in your hair once more, the other dragging the tip of the hatpin along the side of your neck so that the sharp scratch and the threat of injury keeps you still and compliant. When you don’t respond, she slashes the curve where your neck meets your shoulder just once, just lightly, just enough to break the skin. Your shuddering cry is muffled by the floor where she forces your head down. “That wasn’t a rhetorical question, dear.”

“No,” you manage, keening with pain, breathless with desire as a single drop of blood creeps down from your neck and over your collarbone. “No, Mistress.”

“Hmm.” You wince at her amusement, realising how your readiness to respond so politely may have poked a small hole in this charade. “You’re about to find out.”


	4. The Boot

For a moment, Missy lets you get your bearings.

It’s not a mercy; far from it. In the brief stillness and silence, save for your own ragged breaths and choked whimpers, the true extent of your position is finally allowed to sink in. It’s a sobering reality to which she draws your attention.

With her knees braced on your biceps, you can barely move your arms, and since her weight in the small of your back keeps you pinned to the ground you have no hope of rising up onto your knees. You can squirm, a bit, and kick your legs - attempting it now, you hear her chuckle above you, the point of the hatpin pushing harder against your neck until your feeble struggling ceases - but to no end.

The silk slip is bunched up around your waist, leaving you as good as naked. Your bare breasts are crushed into the cold floor. Your thighs, your arse, your cunt are all exposed completely and you draw your legs tightly together in an effort to preserve some modicum of decency. Even so, you can feel slippery arousal in your inner thighs, belying the game, revealing your enjoyment. 

“Well, then.” She rocks her hips, pushing your breasts and stomach harder into the ground, emphasising the weight of her on your back. It knocks you breathless with a huffed groan. “Shall we proceed?”

A merciless tug on your hair, tight enough to your scalp that you can feel the tension right through into your forehead, lifts your face once more. Missy sets the hatpin down just out of reach of your restrained arms. It sits directly in your line of sight, a silent threat, a constant reminder of how tentatively your safety hangs in the balance.

_No hitting with a closed fist. No scars. Nothing you’ve never tried before._

Her rules, not yours; rules that you suspect may be susceptible to her caprice. Even assuming, as you hesitate to do, that she won’t deviate from them in the slightest, they leave her more than enough leeway to make you suffer for any misdeeds, real or imagined. Suffering is entrenched in the game already - you need not invite more.

“You’re probably _pretty_ , aren’t you?” Her mouth lowers towards your ear, and your skin prickles at her tone. The cool leather covering her other hand smacks roughly against your cheek, leaving sharp heat in its wake, making you wince. “Such a lovely, soft mouth. I wonder,” two gloved fingers slide between the teeth parted to allow your gasping breaths, “how much can you _fit_ in there?”

With that she thrusts them deep enough to make you retch, dragging the supple leather uncomfortably at the back of your mouth, letting you taste the earth and smoke musk of it. You jerk in her hands, igniting your scalp with pain as you wrestle with her grip on your hair. She laughs, sweet and melodic.

“It’s fairly _roomy_ , isn’t it? I should think I can _probably_ …”

The pressure leaves the back of your throat as she twists her hand, forcing a third and then, awkwardly but with determination, a fourth finger inside. Fitting her thumb is more difficult; she has to tuck it in against her other fingers, stretching the corner of your mouth wider with the motion. The skin there stings in protest when she pushes against it, her knuckles resting against the outside of your teeth, no room left for more.

You ease your head back as far as her grip on your hair will allow. She follows this tiniest of movements, granting you no escape. The depth of her reach into your mouth is hindered by the breadth of her hand, leaving just enough distance between the soft, fluttering membrane of your throat and the tips of her fingers for you to breathe around them. Saliva pools beneath your restrained tongue, a thin line of it trickling over your bottom lip in the space between her thumb and forefinger. It slicks your chin on its path to the floor.

“ _There_ we go! My _goodness_. I do like this game. Don’t you?”

Missy rolls her hips again, crushing the breath from your chest, choking your cry with her gloved hand so that it’s barely audible. She hums as if in agreement.

“I have to admit, I’m curious. If I just kept _going_ , which would _give_ first, do you think?” She pushes again, letting you feel the threat in her fist, the strength of her hand where it sits between the weakest points of your skull. “Does the broken jaw come _before_ or _after_ the Glasgow smile?” Her grasping fingers wrap around your tongue, the disturbance liberating another rush of spittle from your stuffed and gaping mouth. “It’s sort of a _chicken or the egg_ problem, I suppose, but a bit more interesting.”

She squeezes your tongue between her fingers.

It’s surprisingly painful, and you react instinctively, trying to slide it free and drag it further back in your mouth where she can’t reach it. Her fingers tighten in response. Even with your mouth flooded with saliva as it is there’s too much friction from the leather gloves for your tongue to wriggle loose, and the punishing way she pinches down on it has all the sharp, aching pressure of a bite. It has you squirming, writhing underneath her weight, pulling loose a muffled wail of protest as your eyes screw closed and fresh tears begin to well there. She doesn’t let up.

All that you can do is sink your teeth into her gloved fingers and hope for mercy in the face of such a trespass.

It is a hope quickly extinguished.

Missy yanks her hand free of your mouth, tugging uncomfortably on your tongue as she does so, and clamps her palm down over where your lips are still parted from the cruel violation. With her thumb and the knuckle of her index finger she crushes your nostrils to stop your breath.

“How many teeth do you have again, poppet?” She asks, a thin layer of sweetness in her voice failing to conceal the razor edge beneath. “Thirty-something, was it?”

You attempt to suck in a breath and succeed only in fastening your lips vacuum-tight to the leather that covers her palm. Her fingers are wet from your mouth where they press hard into the soft flesh of your cheek.

“At any rate, enough to string a necklace with, I’m sure.” 

Another grinding shift of her hips, crushing out a breath that can’t escape while her hand smothers you. You squeeze your eyes shut tighter, feeling your lungs beginning to burn with need. She doesn’t pause, circling her hips, flexing her thighs, riding you like a broken filly. It takes a moment for you to realise that she must be _stimulating_ herself like this.

The wool skirt, its thin lining, and the linen chemise beneath it are all gathered between and around her legs, creased into folds and ridges of fabric that she can drag herself against. You, bordering on inanimate underneath her, form the perfect surface. Your every squirming movement must press sweetly at the apex of her thighs.

The thought is impossibly arousing.

You squeak, breathless, pitiful, into the suffocating leather. Bucking weakly underneath her you don’t know if you’re more keen to unseat her or to help her along with her pleasure. It crosses your mind that she might stay here, might slowly press the life from you with her hand blocking your airways and her rolling hips crushing your lungs, until she comes. What could you do? What choice would you have but to serve, but to be the warm body against which she could grind and rut herself to orgasm?

It won’t come to that. You know that it won’t. Missy knows your tells, knows the limits of your body better than you do, is intimately aware of just how far she can push you without breaking anything that doesn’t want to be broken.

Nevertheless, it’s starting to hurt.

Battling for breath like this would be hard enough at the best of times, but the writhing pressure on your back has your temples throbbing, your eyes aching behind their closed lids, your throat alive with a screaming pulse that works fruitlessly to keep you conscious and fighting. Your upper body is seized with it. Adrenaline begins as a prickle over your scalp, colder and crueller than the sting of her fingers in your hair, and works its way further down, over your face, washing through you like frigid water save for the sweat that beads on your forehead.

“I suppose you need to _breathe_ , don’t you?” Missy’s voice is harsh, rendered rough by her own ministrations, desperation of a different kind thickening the words. “Wouldn’t want to spoil the fun too soon.”

The noise rattling from your open mouth is barely audible. Again, you clench your thighs, shift your hips as best you can, the need for breath and the need for touch tangling together until you don’t know where they meet.

“I am going to _stand up_ now,” she warns, punctuating the words with a punishing jerk of her hips that sends light sparking behind your eyes. “And you are going to stay _still_.”

You manage another weak sound, scraping your palms over the floor until they sting, unable to nod or to promise obedience. You would offer her _anything_ for the mercy of breathing.

You would offer her anything if she would let loose your hair and reach back, behind her, to slide her gloved fingers just _once_ through the flooded folds of your cunt, oxygen be damned.

When she moves her hands it’s as though the dam that held back your cries has burst. Your breaths are loud, juddering, forced in and out by shrieking sobs. Along with them comes a fresh flood of saliva, puddling obscenely in the palm of her glove. She scrubs it off with a rough drag of her hand across your face, smearing your skin with your own lukewarm spittle. It dries cold and sticky.

She rises to her feet with startling grace.

The absence of her weight, of the warm pool of fabric that had cushioned her, leaves you shivering. Your arms are sore where her knees had been. Without thinking, you move your hands, reaching to soothe the ache in your biceps.

“ _Stay_ ,” Missy snaps, her boot landing between your shoulder blades by way of reminder. She doesn’t press much weight into it; just enough that you can feel the sharp edge of that Edwardian heel, digging in with needle precision. You fall still immediately, pressing your forehead back to the floor, letting the strain ease from your neck where it had been craned. Your fingers flex uselessly in the empty air while the pain slowly dissipates from your arms.

“Now roll over.” She lifts her foot, nudging your side now with the toe of her boot. You obey without hesitation, shifting onto your back, eyes closed against the sight of her. The rush of cool air against your breasts and stomach makes you wince and it’s nigh on impossible to resist the urge to cover yourself with your hands.

“Good _girl_ ,” she coos, bitterly patronising. Nonetheless, the praise inflames you. “If we can do something about the _biting_ , we’ll make a show puppy of you yet.”

Your eyes snap open at the press of cold, rough leather across your mouth.

Smiling sweetly, Missy grinds the sole of her boot into your face. It doesn’t hurt - she’s careful, no weight in the pressure, no force behind the heel that pokes your cheek - but it’s uncomfortable, deforming your lips, the friction burning your skin. You can imagine the angry pink marks it will leave behind.

She looks more beautiful than ever.

“I’ll let you keep your teeth,” she teases, her nose crinkling with a sharp and mocking sneer. “ _Where_ you keep them is up to you.”

You can’t turn the muffled noise you make into _anything_ resembling horror.

“And your tongue?” Encouraged by the way you react to her threats, she presses just _that bit_ harder, just enough to pinch your mouth with biting discomfort. “Should I cut that out, do you think? Make a lovely _stew_?”

Unravelling beneath her boot, your breaths harsh and unsteady, you reach up to grasp her ankle. The leather is supple beneath your sweaty palm. It occurs to you to try and push her away and, in the same instant, to tug her weight down _harder._ Caught between the desires you let your hand fall limply back to the ground, whining.

“I’m sorry, _what_ was that?” She grinds her heel into your cheek again, and this time the sharp, twisting pain makes you groan. “Speak up, now.”

“ _Please_ ,” you cry, distorted and pitiful underfoot.

“No, still didn’t catch that, I’m afraid.” When she lifts her foot the rush of blood back into your flesh is prickling and painful. There’s a faint taste of metal from your lower lip where she’s dragged it against your teeth. “Try again.”

“Please.” It’s a keening rasp. You wet your lips and swallow hard, painting for breath. “Please, don’t.”

“Oh, _why_ not?” She pouts like she’s been denied a treat. “I think it sounds like jolly good fun.”

With a playful flounce of her skirt she crouches over you, standing above your head so that her face is a dizzying upside-down image of glistening teeth in a too-red mouth.

“I’ll tell you what,” she catches your jaw in her hand and squeezes, gloved fingers pressing into your sore cheek, forcing your mouth open as you croak a miserable noise of protest. “If you can _convince_ me you know how to use it, I’ll leave your pretty mouth intact.”

She works her jaw and purses her lips in an all-too-familiar way.

Degradation, in all its forms, is Missy’s favourite pastime. It is one in which you are only too happy to indulge her, for the most part, though there undeniably are things you do solely to please herrather than out of any organic desire of your own. Watching her draw saliva into her mouth has your eyes widening, a choked gasp spilling from your throat.

The wave of revulsion that you expect never comes.

Perhaps it’s the freedom of the game, the way it liberates you from reality, this role of the subjugated captive taking hold deeper in your mind than you’d expected. Perhaps it’s the prospect of taking her _inside_ you, in whatever way she will allow, after being used as little more than furniture for so many torturous minutes. It could simply be the aching loveliness of her face above yours like this.

Either way, when she spits _directly_ into the back of your gaping mouth, your dripping cunt clenches around the empty air.

The noise you make has her grinning, smiling too genuinely for the part that she plays. She suppresses it quickly.

“Swallow,” she orders, and your thighs snap shut as if she’d caressed you.

It’s with an obscene gulp that you obey.

“That’s a good puppy.” The heat that rises into your face comes with another desperate gasp. “Now kiss your Mistress.”

It’s not until her lips meet yours that you realise that she hasn’t even _kissed_ you yet; she takes advantage of your shock, ransacking your mouth with her pointed little tongue. She tastes the backs of your teeth, irritates your hard palate until you whine at the ticklish insistence, throbs slick and cool and powerful inside you. It’s restless, greedy, inelegant, and almost painfully erotic.

Her breaths are heavy in your mouth, her hand sliding further to cover your throat so that you scarcely even notice when she catches your tongue between her teeth until she’s _biting_ it.

You cry out, jerking, tears springing to your eyes in an instant at the sudden and vicious pain of it. Missy presses her fingers down either side of your windpipe, stilling your squirming shoulders with the threat of a tighter grip. Unthinking, conscious of nothing but the sharp teeth sinking into your tongue, you claw at her hand and her hair.

She lets go, practically shrieking with delight, apparently unbothered by your scrabbling attempt to move her. You pull your tongue back into your mouth and fasten your lips tightly, whimpering, looking up at her with wounded eyes.

“Oh, I’m going to _like_ this,” she purrs. When she releases your neck and begins to gather her skirt higher, you forget the pain entirely. Plum wool and thin white linen brush your forehead on their path up her thighs. “It’s been too long since I broke in a new pet.”


End file.
